


Lazy Sunday

by Somedrunkpirate



Series: Regrette Rien [1]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, Just a lazy sunday, M/M, Movie Night, Softness all around, The Man from U.N.C.L.E (2015) mention, fluff and banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 09:36:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10383759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/pseuds/Somedrunkpirate
Summary: Arthur and Eames have a Lazy Sunday together.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This series has been in my google wip docs for two months. I need to mention that without therealpigfarts, iamanonniemouse and opalecentgold this never would've been finished. Thank you all. 
> 
> The series was the biggest and most ambitious work for me yet, and it makes me exited to make more larger works than this. I hope you all like this contribution to the fandom! 
> 
> ***Before reading the next parts, read the notes at the end!!***
> 
> For people who haven't watched The Man From Uncle yet, it's mentioned by the character a few times. 
> 
> All you have to know is that a main character of the movie is a art thief turned CIA-agent. He was captured and given a choice: 15 years of CIA service, or a 15 year prison sentence. Napoleon choose the service. Napoleon is quite like Eames, only American and classier (more suits).

Eames stares at the telly blearily, not sure what is happening on screen, until he realises the credits are rolling. He stretches. A late night movie always leaves him a bit disorientated, like he was jostled out of a deep sleep. He isn’t quite sure how he arrived here. But it is okay; his totem is on the side table next to him and when he shakes himself out of the post-movie haze, nothing feels off. 

“What did you think, love?” Eames asks the sleepy lump draped over him. Arthur mumbles something against Eames’s chest. Eames pokes him, and Arthur raises his head. 

“Great... It was great,” Arthur croaks before flopping back down. Eames chuckles and runs his hand through Arthur’s hair. “Napoleon was amazing,” Arthur continues sleepily. His voice is rumbley and soft. “A better version of you, less paisley… more suits.” 

“Should I be jealous?” Eames asks, mock gravely, tightening his hold on Arthur.  

“Yes, immensely; I’m looking for a better replacement, this version is no good…” Arthur answers,  snuggling closer into Eames. “Always malfunctioning… no good.” Arthur sighs. 

Eames shakes him gently so that he doesn’t fall asleep.  

“Remind me again why we watched a movie after you just came back from an international flight, pet? I don’t know how you’ve kept yourself awake this whole time.” 

Eames gathers the layers of blankets that cover the both of them and deposits them next to the sofa on the ground, despite Arthur’s protests. Arthur stretches himself, claiming the whole sofa. He yawns before answering. 

“Time-zones, I don’t want to fuck up my sleep schedule,” he says with a frown. As if the construction of time exists purely to spite him. 

Eames hums in agreement and extends his hand to pull Arthur up.  Arthur accepts and Eames pulls him flush against his chest. Arthur’s half closed eyes find his, and he smiles sleepily. 

“Hey, you,” Arthur whispers against Eames’s lips. 

“Hello, darling,” Eames responds before kissing him softly. “We’re going to put you to bed and you are going to sleep for a decade. We have no responsibilities tomorrow.” 

“Lazy Sunday?” Arthur asks hopefully, his lethargy reducing him to a soft version of himself.  

“Yes, love. Lazy Sunday it is.” Eames chuckles, pulling Arthur into the bathroom. Arthur goes with him willingly, and he sits down on the edge of the bath as Eames changes into fresh pants. After a few minutes of silent staring, Eames kisses his nose. 

“What's it, darling?” 

“Eames…” Arthur start, his soft happy mood seemingly gone.His face pulls into a tired but serious focus. Eames’s heart quickens in a mix of fondness and a little nervousness. 

“Does it bother you that I don’t have a nickname for you?” Arthur asks, looking up, forcing Eames to look into his eyes. It takes a while for the question to register for Eames; he wasn’t expecting it. In the meantime, Arthur continues. 

“I mean… Illya and Napoleon have ‘Cowboy’ and ‘Peril’ and you call me Love, Darling, Pet… Sometimes Dove, or even Sweetheart and I don’t call you anything. Should I call you something?” he mumbles, his tiredness catching up with him. 

Arthur’s face is open, a bit vulnerable and seemingly confused. Like he should have realised this earlier and is disappointed with himself for not doing so. Eames caresses his jaw and kisses his cheek, still a bit speechless. He is surprised, and Arthur's disappointment with himself on this perceived failure floods his heart with warmth. 

“Darling, that’s not true,” Eames says after making eye contact. He cups Arthur’s jaw and sighs, amused. “You do have an endearment for me.” 

Arthur reacts by raising his right eyebrow, questioning. Eames smiles at him and pulls him up against his chest, wrapping his arms around him. 

“You call me Mr Eames, love,” he explains. He feels rather than hears Arthur starting to argue, but silences him with a kiss. 

“Shut up, it counts. No one calls me that like you do.” Eames smiles broadly as he pulls back. “Brush your teeth, love, and off to bed with you. The Queen demands it.” 

Arthur complies reluctantly while mumbling that the Queen has no power over him, “Viva la resistance.” Eames chuckles and shakes his head fondly. There is something about seeing Arthur this trusting and vulnerable that makes him realise how lucky he is. 

He falls in love all over again.  

Eames gets into bed with a light heart. He watches Arthur stumble into bed after him, attaching himself to Eames with a soft sigh. Eames kisses the mop of wavy hair tickling his nose. 

“Sweet dreams, darling,” Eames says softly, stroking Arthur's naked back under the blankets. 

“I’m gonna dream of Napoleon,” Arthur whispers in response, before promptly falling asleep, leaving Eames no time to tease back. 

Eames chuckles softly and arranges himself in a comfortable position, careful not to jostle Arthur awake. He falls asleep quickly, reassured by the warm body next to him and with a smile on his face.    
  


\--

The next day, Eames wakes up alone. The right side of his bed is still warm and the blankets are tussled and left carelessly behind. The curtains that cover the window are still closed, but one bright stream of sunlight still manages to sneak through, informing Eames of the time. Eames imagines that Arthur has already crossed off item number one on the Lazy Sunday list in his moleskin. Sleep-ins are a must, and a rule to be followed in this relationship. It isn’t a Lazy Sunday otherwise. 

Eames stretches; he is tempted to slip back into unconsciousness when a whistle distracts him. He raises his head, clearing his sleep-muddled brain a little. A little less dead to the world now, Eames recognises the tune; Arthur is whistling  _ Non, je ne regrette rien _ . 

Arthur started the habit when he noticed that he could get Eames to wake up with it, no matter how deeply he slept. By using the song for years as the cue for the Kick, Eames began to associate it with waking up to such an extent that it became integral in his daily life. Arthur still swears that it is the only way to wake Eames up without having to deal with his grouchy mood afterwards. 

Eames takes the hint and rolls out of bed. He tugs the blankets back into place. It is a small task that always makes Arthur so adorably happy, so Eames tries to do it of his own volition - whenever he remembers. 

The smell of bacon floats into the bedroom. Eames’s stomach rumbles, and he quickly grabs a shirt to dart into the living room, which is adjacent to the kitchen on a raised floorboard. It bathes in the flood of light that comes in through the windows, which are scattered throughout the apartment.

Eames is humming in harmony with Arthur’s whistling. He stops hurrying to enjoy  the view of Arthur in one of his  shirts and boxer shorts. He is baking pancakes, the Dutch kind –Eames has successfully banned the American ones from this house- and he flips it in the air skilfully.

“You’re getting good at that, pet. You should put it with your special skills on your resume,” Eames jokes, leaning against the counter isle across from Arthur. 

“Did it wake you again?” Arthur asks. 

Eames shakes his head. Arthur pouts and plates the pancake, placing it before Eames. 

“I was awake already; you were gone,” Eames explains. 

Arthur punches him in the arm none so gently. “You sap, eat your pancake,” He admonishes, but Eames can see him smiling as he turns back to the stove. 

“Pannenkoek,” Eames corrects and complies, finishing his plate in a few bites. 

Eames sticks around while Arthur bakes  a small stack of pancakes. They spend the time in companionable silence, only broken up when Arthur resumes his whistling.  

I’m already awake, Eames thinks, but he doesn’t mention it, enjoying the moment.  

“You know, I’ve been thinking…” Arthur says while moving the plate with the pancakes to the dinner table. Eames follows with plates and cutlery. 

“No thinking on Lazy Sunday, love, listen to your own scripture.” Eames inserts. He sits down and puts a pancake on Arthur’s plate. Arthur walks back to the kitchen; Eames hears him opening and closing a drawer. He speaks  again while walking back with jam and icing sugar in his hands. 

“Not work-thinking, creative thinking. That’s allowed,” he says as he sits down. 

“Pray tell.” 

“About the movie we watched-“ 

“Wait, you remember that? I thought you were asleep for most of it.” Eames chuckles. Arthur threatens to stab him with his fork. 

“Don’t interrupt me, and yes I remember. I also remember how amazing Napoleon was and how he would listen to everything I say and not talk right over me.” Arthur says crossly, but his small smile softens the blow. Eames puts a piece of pancake in his mouth to signal he will shut up. 

“I was thinking; what would you have chosen, if you were the one that got caught? 15 years of service in the CIA, or 15 years in prison?”  

Arthur is looking at him with curiosity, a small smile playing on his face, but Eames feels like he sees something serious hidden behind it. 

“Whichever one you could save me from the easiest.” Eames responds decisively, his mouth still half full. Arthur looks away and smiles. 

“That’s cheating,” he says but Eames is shaking his head avidly. 

“It is a logical conclusion comprised out of all available facts.” Eames proclaims, imitating Arthur, straightening his back and head pretentiously. 

Arthur leans back in his chair, laughing. 

“It’s a Lazy Sunday,” he says, his eyes sparkling with mirth. “No forging.” 

He leans forward. “But what would you choose, if you knew that I couldn’t help you?” Arthur asks again, still smiling. Eames shivers. 

“If you can’t help me darling, all hope is lost.” Eames replies solemnly, and changes the subject.    
  


\--

Eames is washing the breakfast dishes, deep in thought.  Arthur slides into place behind him,  hands around Eames’s waist. Eames can feel that he is only wearing a towel around his hips. He finishes up the washing before  turning towards Arthur. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” Eames asks, amused but distracted, pecking Arthur on the nose.  

“I’m going to shower, join me?” Arthur asks and bites his lips seductively. Eames kisses him, but shakes his head. 

“In a second love, I have a-“ Eames starts, but Arthur cuts his apologies off with a deep kiss. He smiles after stepping back. 

“You have a muse, you’re on another plane of existence; I know how it is. It’s okay. Go paint, I’ll be here when you come back to us mere mortals.” Arthur smiles. He steals the towel Eames was planning to dry the dishes with.  

“Go.” He mock-orders. “I’ll finish up, fill the world with art it doesn’t deserve.” 

Eames hugs Arthur quickly and kisses him again. 

“You’re the best, darling.” Eames says before hurrying to the living room. “I love you!” He yells towards the kitchen. Eames hears Arthur chuckling in response.     
  
  


The living room is an open space with large modern mirrors that cover the south walls. Eames has placed his easel right in the middle, the view and sunlight a constant source of inspiration. He grabs various paints and one single brush; they had been maliciously organized by Arthur on a row of wooden planks that fill the western wall of the room. There is a jar of dirty but still usable water that has been left behind from another painting session and Eames decides not to bother changing it; it will get dirty in a second, anyway. 

He mixes the paints on a wooden palette that had been an anniversary gift that Arthur had gotten custom made, engraved with a paisley pattern. 

When Eames is content with his colours, he stands before a blank canvas. Taking a deep breath, he feels his mind go quiet. Only a hum of focus and inspiration remains. 

He paints.    
  


Eames sings while he paints. It is only because of the singing that Eames doesn’t hear Arthur coming, a self-respecting thief, such as himself, would have noticed otherwise. Arthur places himself at Eames’s right elbow, but doesn’t look at him. He looks at the painting, focused, as if he is trying to commit it to memory. Eames finishes his last brushstrokes while singing the last line of the song. 

_ “Comme, L’immensité.”  _

After, he puts his brush into the jar, his pallet on the side table next to the easel and blinks blearily at the now covered canvas. Then he looks past the painting, through the window. He realises belatedly that the sun has started to set. He turns towards Arthur in surprise. The quick movement makes his head feel woozy. Arthur raises the corner of his mouth, but doesn’t look away from the painting. 

“It’s lovely.” Arthur says, right when Eames tries to start talking. That cuts Eames off, and he turns back to look at the painting. It really is lovely. Eames has painted a little Italian plaza, overlooking a canal with a delicately decorated bridge. The painting has a impressionistic feel, bright colours spring up into the viewer's vision but the lighting and shadows make it feel solid and real despite this. Eames feels some pride welling up, as well as a mix of apprehension and understanding. Painting this should’ve taken hours, and the sun’s position only confirms his fears. 

“How long…?” Eames asks Arthur hesitantly, who is now smiling at him. Eames feels like he is being silently mocked. 

“From 2 pm to 10 pm. So 8 hours? Give or take.” Arthur answers, amusement colouring his voice. “Don’t know how you can go so long without having to piss,” he adds.

“About that-“ Eames hurries off to the bathroom. He is followed by Arthur’s beautiful laughter. Eames can’t help but laugh along with him. 

After finishing his unmentionables and washing the paint from his arms, he returns to the living room, where Arthur is sprawled over the sofa. He is wearing sweatpants and a jumper and looking up at him sunnily. 

“Hello, you.” Arthur says. “I’ve missed you.” 

Eames drops himself on the sofa, covering Arthur and wrapping his arms around   Arthur’s waist. 

“I’m so sorry, love.” He mumbles into Arthur naked belly, his sweater ridden up by Eames’s face. “I’ve ruined Lazy Sunday, I neglected you. I support your plans to replace me with Napoleon; you deserve much better.” Eames says, pouting. He looks up at Arthur, who is looking back with ill disguised delight. Eames leans forward again,  nuzzling Arthur’s belly in the process. 

“Stop it you oaf, that tickles.” Arthur chuckles, pulling Eames up to his chest. 

Eames goes willingly, and sighs. Arthur doesn’t seem to be annoyed with him, but Eames has to swallow away some bitter disappointment in himself. They don’t have many days off, certainly not many together. A painting session is something to be done when Arthur is on a job somewhere far away. When Eames doesn’t know what to with himself on a rest day anyway. 

Now, they have missed their chance to spend the day together, and tomorrow, Eames has a consultation for a potential job lined up. Conclusion - he ruined everything and deserves a sulk. Eames tightens his arms around Arthur and moans in frustration at himself. He feels Arthur rolling his eyes at him. Eames wants to grumble and mope for the rest of eternity, but Arthur doesn’t let him. He pulls him out of his dark mood with a sharp tug on Eames’s hair and a deep, mind bogglingly filthy kiss. 

“Hey drama queen, stop this pity party. Yeah?” He commands and kisses Eames again.

Eames reacts eagerly, kissing back while sneaking his hand beneath Arthur’s jumper. Arthur hums into the kiss, he responds to Eames’s enthusiasm but doesn’t let it get anymore heated. He pulls back after a thorough making out session and laughs at Eames for his indignant pouting. 

“You haven’t eaten since breakfast, Mr Eames. We need to get some food into you,” he says, voice stern but eyes twinkling. Eames lies back down on Arthur in disappointment. Arthur lets him, a hand is petting Eames’ head. 

“We could go to the Japanese place you love? My treat, as an apology.” Eames offers, torn between looking up to see Arthur’s face and staying down to keep the petting going. 

“Eames, I had a great day today.” Arthur says, his hand tightens in Eames’s hair to cut short his protests. Eames grunts but keeps quiet. 

“I got to wake up with the man I love, spend a relaxed morning with him, watch him paint wonders and listen to him sing all day. Most people would think I’m lucky.” 

Eames feels Arthur kiss his head. He doesn’t reply at Arthur’s statements, lost in thought. Eames knows he is too focused sometimes, like Arthur is with his work; he can paint for hours on end and forget the world around him. He tries not to worry too much about it, but at times like this, it can feel more like a failure rather than a quality. His body is exhausted from standing, he has eaten way too little, and he forgets Arthur in those moments too. Eames still feels like it is something he’s got to work on, but hearing Arthur’s words does help. He pulls himself upright. 

“Okay,” Eames says. He kisses an Arthurian dimple quickly, and drags himself off Arthur. “It’s too late for a reservation, but how about take away?” He asks Arthur while looking for his phone. 

“Indian.” Is the reply he gets.

Eames complies, calls up their go-to place, and places an order. After hanging up, he walks into the kitchen and fills a large glass with water; he is quite dehydrated. He takes the glass with him, with a tin of biscuits for munchies. 

Arthur made room for him on the sofa and is reading something with his adorable reading glasses on. 

“Wilde?” Eames asks and sits down next to him. Arthur nods and places his book on the side table. 

“You reminded me of a conversation we didn’t finish, when you were moaning about your great failures.” Arthur says. Eames raises an eyebrow in silent question. 

“You still haven’t answered the Napoleon question.” Arthur says pointedly. “I want to know.”  Eames flops onto the sofa sighing dramatically. 

“You’re obsessed.” Eames declares. Arthur pokes him, grinning. 

“Answer the question, Mr Eames.” 

“Fine.” Eames says, pretending to be annoyed. He doesn’t have to look at Arthur to know he isn’t fooling anyone. Then, Eames takes a minute to really think about the question. Would he rather be under total power of an organisation he does not agree with, but must endanger his life for? Or would he like to be incarcerated, deprived of his freedom and the world for 15 years? Eames sighs. 

It's actually a very serious question, certainly because in their business getting caught and having to face to consequences is a real possibility. Eames voices this opinion, but Arthur doesn’t react, just watches him curiously again. Eames takes a deep breath and lets his answer formulate itself while he talks. 

“To start with, I will in no circumstance get caught, ever. We’re good enough for that.” 

Arthur snorts at that, and motions for him to continue. 

“I think I couldn’t deal with the bloody orders, the missions. I left the wrenched military for a reason. And to have to deal with that for 15 years, it wouldn’t be worth the freedom you’d get relative to jail. I think the prison would have more options for freedom, for me personally. I could paint, fantasize about better times, read. Hell, I’ll start a poker ring if I get bored. I think I’ll just keep myself busy for those 15 years.” 

Arthur smiles. “You would become the big man of the prison wouldn’t you, with charms and strategically cheating.” Arthur looks away. 

“You would try to escape first though, right?” He asks Eames, who raises his eyebrows at the obviousness of the question. 

“Of course.” Eames replies, a bit baffled. Then he remembers the conversation they had that morning. “However, if you can’t get me out, I’m not sure what good trying to escape would do.” 

He means it as a joke, a way to lighten the mood. But Arthur doesn’t laugh; he is still staring into the distance. 

“You have to try though.” Arthur eventually says. Eames is prevented from reacting by the doorbell; the takeaway has arrived. The smell of food distracts Eames and they talk about something else during dinner, the conversation forgotten.    
  


\--

It’s 12 am when they finish eating and shuffle into the bathroom to prepare for bed.  Arthur makes room for Eames next to the sink and they wash their faces in unison, a ritual they conduct in silence. Eames is still humming softly, only stopping when he starts to brush his teeth. 

"I would get caught, if I thought it would save you." Arthur says, before sticking his toothbrush in his mouth. Eames has to grab the sink to not fall to the ground. He spits into the sink and puts his toothbrush away with deliberate movements.  

"Uhm…" Eames croaks. "Feeling is mutual, love." He takes a deep breath. "Good to know though, I do hope the idiotic things we would do for each other, will cancel each other out somehow." 

Arthur just shrugs and rinses out his mouth. 

"I have many backup plans." He says before leaving the bathroom. He is whistling Edith Pilaf again. 

Eames shakes his head in silent disbelief. This miracle of a man is  _ his _ . This is a reality that he never thought possible, but still a fact that he had to accept, and he did so with pleasure and constant gratitude. The dreamlike quality of his life suddenly hits him, flooding his heart with warmth and compelling Eames to go after Arthur. 

He presses Arthur against the wall. Arthur smiles at him in response, dimples on full display. Eames kisses them, while Arthur presses their hips together. Eames growls and steals a desperate kiss, intimate and hungry. He pulls back and looks at Arthur for a minute. Arthur wriggles impatiently for more friction but Eames stills him with another kiss until Arthur looks up.  Eames inclines his head to the bed and Arthur doesn’t miss his chance. 

“Bed, Mr Eames?” Arthur asks, dimpling. Eames smiles back. 

“Lead the way, Darling.”

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> ****Read before continuing!!*****
> 
> You can ignore me and the next parts and just take this fluffy story as is, or you can continue reading...
> 
> So, this fluff fest has two totally separate endings. Awake and Asleep. They both continue the story right after Lazy Sunday but they are very different in which way they take, and what tone they have. If you want fluff, I recommend Awake. For angst lovers, try Asleep. 
> 
> If you love me, you can also read them both and tell me which one you loved best, and which one you think is the true reality. 
> 
> I was inspired by the last scene of the movie, the wobbling top that asks the viewer to decide if what they saw was real or not. I tried to make my own take on this concept, with these two separate endings. 
> 
> The order I put them in is arbitrary, it's just the way I wrote them. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy the parts and please get back to me on which you read and what you believe in!


End file.
